


Celebrate Me

by cardiac_arrest



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, M/M, but i still cant, mitch is a model and auston is still torontos saviour, youd think that id be able to tag by now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 09:25:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22428298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardiac_arrest/pseuds/cardiac_arrest
Summary: “So you do know who I am,” Auston smirks.“I’m gay, not a hermit. It’s not like I don’t or can’t like sports.” There’s a tiny inkling in Mitch’s brain that is cognisant of his chance to, somehow, maybe, tie down Auston Matthews. But there’s no way he can do it if he keeps acting like this. Not that he particularly cares at the moment.Auston raises his eyebrows. “Okay, I didn’t know that.”“Which part, the gay or liking sports?” Mitch says, unimpressed.“Both, I guess,” Auston rolls his eyes.
Relationships: Mitch Marner/Auston Matthews
Comments: 10
Kudos: 169





	Celebrate Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Caivallon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caivallon/gifts).

> okay so this was supposed to 3.5k. obviously, that didnt pan out. this was also written partially because i literally could not get roxanne out of my head, but i also didnt want to write mitch AS roxanne, you get me?
> 
> gifted to the lovely [miss-malheur](http://miss-malheur.tumblr.com/) on tumblr because 1) she deserves a little more 1634 and 2) its her birthday coming up!! i hope you enjoy it!! (also sorry in advance because i didnt put mitch in a lot of pretty clothes :((( )

“I feel like I made a bad choice,” Mitch sighs, half pouting, as he slouches forward so his upper body is resting on the stained-wood table. He holds his phone in front of his face, scrolling through his Insta DM’s with a grimace. 

Morgan levels him with a look, conveying his annoyance without a single word. He takes a sip of his coffee and says, “I told you—”

“I know what you told me,” Mitch rolls his eyes. He clears his throat and mimics Morgan, “‘You need to go clubbing with Roxanne on Saturday because it’s a good way for you to make connections! You need more connections! Connections, connections, connections!’”

Morgan shakes his head with a heavy exhale, closing his eyes as if he couldn’t stand the sight of Mitch being a brat. Well, Mitch can understand Morgan. He, too, would not be able to stand himself whining either.

But then again, he wouldn’t be whining if it weren’t for Morgan’s insistence at Mitch to rub elbows with the heiress privy to the inheritance of the largest insurance corporation in Canada. An heiress who models, giving Mitch the chance to mingle with the crème de la crème. It’s both a blessing and a curse that someone as famous as Roxanne had taken an interest in a wet-behind-the-ears model like Mitch.

“My voice isn’t that high and you need to grow up.”

Mitch ignores Morgan’s words and opens up the newest message from Roxanne; a sickeningly lavish boomerang showing off her perfect, elegant mess of blonde curls and plump lips as she blows a faux-kiss to the camera. It looks like she’s at some fancy brunch. Mitch wants to be at some fancy brunch, too. His lips twist. 

“What are you looking at, huh?” Morgan says. “Give me that.”

“Hey!” Mitch exclaims as Morgan snatches his phone out of his hands. “Have you ever heard of privacy?”

“I’m your manager,” Morgan mumbles off-handedly as he replays the boomerang. Mitch leans over his shoulder. 

“Oh my god, you replayed it? Dude, you can’t replay it!” 

Morgan ignores him. “Yeah, you’re never gonna be as pretty as her, Mitchy. You should just give up now. Go back to uni, you know? Why do kids these days even want to become models?” Morgan hands back Mitch’s phone with a sympathetic and placating little smirk, seemingly lamenting to the Gods above. 

“I fucking know that, Mo. I’m never gonna be Roxanne, stop rubbing it in,” Mitch scowls with a groan. “You’re a shit manager, why do I pay you again?”

“Because I’m the best of the best,” Morgan smiles. “So you gotta listen to me, yeah? You need my guidance because you’re not Roxanne. You’ll end up worse off without me.” 

Mitch is silent for a minute as he likes Roxanne’s message, sending back a little kissy sticker in response. He scrolls through his Instagram feed with a vengeance, mainly out of trivial anger. He fumes to himself until he has to admit that Morgan is right. “I hate that you’re right.”

“That’s it,” Morgan smirks. “Be a good boy and go clubbing on Saturday. But don’t you dare get too drunk or take pictures with your ass out. You’re not popular enough to have any press be good press.”

“You know I’d never do any of those things,” Mitch says innocently and takes a picture of Morgan as he blinks. He smiles to himself at how ridiculous Morgan looks and saves the photo. He wishes he could send this to someone to blackmail Morgan.

Morgan raises his eyebrows.

“When have you ever seen me—and this is me we’re talking about here—be scandalous?” Mitch drawls. He’s exaggerating beyond belief, but he’s bored as fuck and Morgan is always fun to rile up. 

“I know you’re bored right now and I’m not playing into your stupid games. Don’t make me lecture you again on the Champagne Fountain Incident, okay?”

Mitch groans as a series of unwanted, repressed memories flash through his mind, all of them involving him in a lacking state of undress and the unpleasant sensation of getting soaked in sticky alcohol. “You promised to never bring that up again!”

“Did I? I can’t remember,” Morgan asks drily. “But I think I can if you promise to wear something decent that doesn’t show off your dick.”

Mitch growls, taking a second to think for himself. “Fine, I promise! But only if you don’t bring that up again. _ Seriously, _ this time.” 

“I promise,” Morgan smirks, an evil glint shining in his eyes. 

Mitch narrows his eyes and huffs. He knows Morgan isn’t going to keep his promise. He scrolls through his phone some more and lets out a noise of discontentment. 

*

On Saturday, Mitch arrives at the club around twelve, a full half-hour later than the time that Roxanne had called upon. It was always better to be late than early, and Mitch wasn’t going to take any chances with Roxanne and her cohort. But as much as Mitch hated the massive display of wealth that followed Roxanne around, he couldn’t help but feel something akin to awe; it was the first time he’d ever been to the VIP section of a club. 

It was easy to impress Mitch, with something as simple as a raised VIP floor elevating his opinion of the club. It helped that the interior was much more impressive than the club’s exterior, sleek, black walls holding the building up that helped to focus the attention upon various exotic structures littering the open space. The lights flashed neon colours all around, reflecting off the metal of the ‘bird-cages’, intriguing pieces of furniture that had the resemblance of literal bird-cages surrounding circular sitting booths. 

But it also doesn’t take much time for the zenith of his opinion on the club to drop to the depths of hell.

Without reprieve or abandon, the music pounds heavily in Mitch’s ears as he ascends the stairs to the VIP mezzanine, his teeth vibrating as the beat echoes throughout his body. He lets it run, lets it distract him from the buzzing anger throbbing through his bones. He focuses on the static electronic screens littering every inch of the walls—maybe blinding himself will be a better option than acting on his mounting emotions. 

“Oh my god, you made it!” a high-pitched voice screams in Mitch’s ear. A hand drags him towards a set of couches, sharp, long nails digging into his skin. Mitch winces just a bit, from both the pain and the ear-grating tone of Roxanne’s voice. 

“Yeah, I did,” Mitch says cheerfully. He puts on a smile. 

And there’s Roxanne in all her beautiful glory. Her golden hair is curled, once again, and bounces along with her movements. She wears a skin-tight dress, silk-smooth and reflective, showing off her curves and long, long legs. Mitch can’t deny that she’s the conventional model. 

“You have to take a shot,” she insists, staring into Mitch’s eyes and gesturing with both her hands to a tray settled on the chrome table in the middle of the seats. 

Mitch’s eyes widen as the other girls swarming around the lounge chime in with various phrases of encouragement, all with varying levels of enthusiasm. He doesn’t usually like to drink, but he’s here to make connections, right?

“Alright, alright,” Mitch laughs, just a bit too nervous for his own liking, and grabs the shot offered to him with a shaky hand. He downs it with a shudder. The liquid burns as it passes into his esophagus, introducing a new type of regret as he almost chokes. 

The girls cheer. It’s only twelve, but it seems like they’ve been drinking for much longer than half an hour. 

“So, how’re you liking the club?” Roxanne turns towards him again after he catches his breath. She twirls a strand of hair in her fingers and ignores the other girls—models, too, probably, Mitch wonders why he’s the only guy there—trying to get her attention. 

There’s a voice inside Mitch’s head, which sounds like Morgan, telling him to play up his pleasantries and make a good impression. It’s too bad that Mitch doesn’t like to lie, doesn’t have the impulse control to stop himself from saying the truth.

“Um,” he starts, “I really like the interior design and stuff, and the atmosphere’s nice! But, dude, the bouncers kinda killed my vibes. I spent so much time trying to get past them; it’s like they were looking down on me.”

Roxanne raises an eyebrow—it’s clear she got them done—and blinks. Her fake lashes are very extreme; Mitch wonders if they make her eyelids heavy. She looks Mitch up and down and sneers just a bit. It’s prominent enough that Mitch can see the disgust. 

“Yeah, I think it’s the dress code,” Roxanne drawls, her valley-girl accent shining through. Mitch has always been curious about the accent, he knows she was born and raised in Oakville. 

“The dress code?” Mitch echoes and looks down at his outfit. 

He was sure not to wear anything _ too _ scandalous, anything that would make Morgan scream in frustration. The white, lace shirt might be revealing, but only in the sense that it shows his nipples. Okay, the black shorts may also be just a bit too short, but his dick isn’t showing, so he counts that as club-appropriate. None of his genitals are showing—that should be enough. 

Roxanne nods. “You don’t want to be too flamboyant, you know?”

It seems like he hadn’t taken into account the heteronormative state of his surroundings. 

Mitch takes a moment to calm down, before his response rips out of him, “flamboyant? Really?”

“Well, yeah, no straight guy would _ ever _ wear a lace shirt,” Roxanne shrugs, taking a sip of the pink, dainty cocktail that a girl hands her out of nowhere. 

Mitch wants to scowl and scream and say how that is absolutely not true, but he remembers Morgan’s voice—_ connections _—and shuts himself up with effort. 

And then she continues, “and you’re not wearing any designer, so, like, I’unno.” 

Mitch stiffens. As a model, he knows he’s supposed to be decked out in luxurious garments, designed by renowned individuals hailing from every part of the globe. Yet, growing up in an average-ly average middle-class family, he knows the stupidity of wearing brand names just for the sake of clout. Three things make up his own fashion guidelines—comfort, material, personal enjoyment—and _ clout _ isn’t one of them. 

“I don’t need to wear designer to look good,” Mitch says, his voice neutral. He flicks a look at Roxanne, his eyelids half-lowered. The phrase slips out, naturally, with ease. It’s shady in a sense.

He jolts when he realizes Roxanne has an affronted look on her face, shaking his head and laughing nervously. He tries to retrace his steps, scouring his mind for something to say that would remove him from this embarrassing outburst of aggravation. He hadn’t meant to blurt out the sentence.

“You know what, let’s go down to the floor,” Mitch shouts, taking another one of the shots sitting on the tray in hopes that it makes him look more pliant. “I haven’t danced in so long!” 

He slams the shot down, tequila pouring into his throat and leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He hopes the action appeases Roxanne. 

Roxanne’s face shifts minutely from the coarse anger to a toned-down version of the same emotion, but perhaps with just a bit more accord thrown into the mix. 

“Okay, let’s,” Roxanne smiles, an edge to it. 

Mitch breathes a sigh of relief, telling himself to calm down. Roxanne corrals the rest of the group with an energetic and manic shout, encouraging them to join her and Mitch on the dance floor. The rest of the girls assent with enthusiastic cheers, slipping down the stairs with a sort of sexual grace that Mitch has yet to figure out and put into use himself. 

As they descend the stairs, someone asks if Mitch is gay. He says yes, haughtily, and gets annoyed when they gush over him. It deteriorates his already waning mood.

The music is definitely louder on the ground-level, where strobe-lights threaten to take his vision out. The bass is heavy and smothering, and Mitch can’t hear very well. He feels the tacky, discomforting feeling of sweat pooling under his armpits and on his back. There are too many people for Mitch to feel any type of ease or fervour. He smiles at Roxanne’s cohort as they whoop and cheer beside him; it’s fake and too tight. The claustrophobia sets in as the crowd moves along to the beat, causing him to do the same. He tries to break out some of his dance moves, tries to at least pretend like he’s having fun. But in the end, he feels too out of place to try his hand at interacting with any members of the group, including Roxanne. 

Mitch doesn’t know how much time has passed, but he slips away to a more reclusive corner in the back. He leans against the wall of the club and takes a deep breath. The music makes it hard to think. 

“Fucking Morgan,” he mutters to himself as he looks down at himself. There’s a passing feeling of despondency that he hates. It tells him that he isn’t as immune to the workings of old-money behaviour than he’d like to admit. 

He shakes his head and focuses on the positives. At least the music is decent. At least he can buy himself some type of pop—he thinks he deserves some type of sugar for enduring this hell. 

Mitch ends up at the bar, ordering a glass of Sprite like some type of fool. He sits down on one of the stools and slips the bartender a loonie. He takes his phone out and checks his hair, brushing back a cowlick that has escaped the hold of his hair-gel. He sighs. It’s only one in the morning, but he’s tired to the marrow of his bones. He takes a selfie of himself making an angry face and sends it off to Morgan on Snapchat, the caption saying, _ “i hate this so much i hate you for making me come”. _

He swirls his glass of Sprite, smiling at the clinking ice cubes. 

“Ugh, there you are! I’ve been looking for you for ages!” Roxanne huffs out, her words on the edge of being a whine. 

“Oh, hey,” Mitch says with fake zeal. “Got myself a drink.”

“I can see that!” Roxanne giggles, almost obnoxiously. “You definitely needed one!” 

Mitch chooses not to reply with words, but instead with a hum. It’s best to let Roxanne believe that he’s drinking alcohol. It’s best if he doesn’t speak for the rest of the night. 

“Oh my god, don’t look, but I think there’s a guy who’s into you. He keeps staring at you! He’s sitting in that birdcage on the right,” Roxanne whispers into his ear, just a bit too close for comfort. 

“Yeah?” Mitch asks, a bit tiredly. He’s honestly exhausted, and he wants to go to sleep. He takes another sip of his Sprite, maybe the sugar and carbonation will wake him up.

Mitch is honestly surprised that anyone is looking at him in this hetero-forward club. He wonders what type of person would be staring him down… he almost shudders.

“Yeah! Oh my god, he’s pretty hot,” she huffs. It sounds like she’s pretty mad about it. Mitch rolls his eyes and finally looks toward the birdcage booth that Roxanne’s pointing to.

It’s hard to make out who she’s talking about with the dim lighting and obstruction of the booth from the metal bars of the birdcage, but Mitch manages to catch a glimpse of dark brown hair and eyes. He squints a bit and the strobe lights manage to hit the man and—and _ oh. _

It’s Auston Matthews. 

Auston Matthews stares intently in their general direction, but Mitch doesn’t know who he’s staring at specifically. The hungry, ravenous gaze sends a shiver down Mitch’s spine, shaking him to his core. He wonders if his shorts are too tight, if people can see his dick now. There are things Mitch would like to teach Auston, including how to change his hairstyle in place of that _ awful _ slicked-back hair, but it seems that his dick doesn’t mind much at the moment, not at all. 

But it doesn’t matter, because Mitch doesn’t know if it’s him that Auston is staring at. 

“Roxanne,” Mitch hisses, grabbing her arm. “Do you _ know _ who that is?”

Roxanne blinks at him, her face blank. “No, is he rich or something?” 

And, god, Mitch _ really _ wants to facepalm himself, or maybe Roxanne. She grew up in Toronto, she should’ve at least heard of Auston Matthews.

“Uh, yeah, he’s pretty loaded, I guess. Don’t you know Auston Matthews? The guy who plays hockey for the Leafs? The first pick overall? The _ saviour _ of Toronto?” 

“No idea,” Roxanne shrugs, “hockey players are hot and all, but I don’t really follow sports.”

Mitch is sure there is smoke coming out of his ears. 

“But shit! Aren’t you glad he’s staring at you then? Go get that cock!” Roxanne exclaims, but it’s all faux-sugar. 

Mitch snorts. “Roxanne, honey, he’s a hockey player. He’s straight. He’s probably staring at you.”

Roxanne’s demeanour shifts a one-eighty, her face lighting up with a conniving sort of glee. “You’re right, he is probably staring at me.”

Oh, god, Mitch wants to go home. 

“Do I look okay?” Roxanne asks him earnestly. She pulls the hem of her dress up slightly and pulls down its strappy square neckline. She brushes the hair out of her face and pushes her lashes up. 

“Yeah, you look great,” Mitch says, without thought. 

Roxanne laughs, a little self-absorbed chuckle. “Good. Okay, wish me luck.” She winks and sashays off, swaying her hips. Mitch isn’t going to lie, but she makes a pretty picture of sensuality, all long legs accentuated by stilting high heels. 

She leaves Mitch slumped over on the bar counter, alone. He huffs audibly, a heavy breath of air that blows away a stack of napkins sitting on the counter. He watches as the flimsy pieces of paper flutter away and fall down. Mitch contemplates taking his phone out but goes against it; he can just shut his eyes for a bit and focus on the pounding music. 

Mitch props himself on one elbow and hums. He closes his eyes, a small smile forming on his face unconsciously as the starting notes of a song blares in the club. It’s so perfectly descriptive of Roxanne that Mitch can’t help but wonder if Arizona Zervas happened to date Roxanne herself.

It’s a catchy song, and he finds himself swaying to the beat. He thinks about stepping back onto the dancefloor. He opens his eyes and jolts as he finds himself face to face with Auston Matthews. 

“Your friend left you,” Auston Matthews says, nodding his head in the direction of the dancefloor. 

“Uh, yeah, she did,” Mitch replies, his tongue feeling quite large in his mouth. Suddenly, his mouth feels too dry. He swallows a few times, but there’s still no moisture that comes. 

“Where’d she go?” Auston’s voice is teasing, tendrils of music curling down Mitch’s spine. It’s meant to be a light, chirping remark, but Mitch has been through too much tonight to restrain himself. 

“I don’t fucking know man,” Mitch sighs harshly, fully slumping down, the dryness in his mouth forgotten. “If you like her so much, go track her down. Her name’s Roxanne, like the song that’s playing right now.” 

Auston raises his eyebrows. “Geez, bro, didn’t know you had such a short fuse.” 

“It’s been a long fucking night, I don’t care if you’re Auston Matthews. I have absolutely no filter right now,” Mitch scoffs. He sits up abruptly and takes a swig of his drink, trying to like menacing. It doesn’t seem like he does since he’s wearing a lace shirt and his nipples are showing. 

“So you do know who I am,” Auston smirks. 

“I’m gay, not a hermit. It’s not like I don’t or can’t like sports.” There’s a tiny inkling in Mitch’s brain that is cognisant of his chance to, somehow, maybe, tie down Auston Matthews. But there’s no way he can do it if he keeps acting like this. Not that he particularly cares at the moment. 

Auston raises his eyebrows. “Okay, I didn’t know that.”

“Which part, the gay or liking sports?” Mitch says, unimpressed. 

“Both, I guess,” Auston rolls his eyes.

“You didn’t think that I was gay? Not even when I’m dressed like this?” He gestures to his outfit. Auston’s eyes follow his hands, stopping to linger on Mitch’s pecs. 

“No,” Auston says, making a face like he’s affronted by the insinuation that Auston might’ve played into a bias, “lots of straight men wear lace shirts.”

“Dude! That’s what I was thinking!” Mitch’s eyes widen. “Why doesn’t anyone get it? Fashion—is for everyone.”

Auston chuckles. “You’re not what I expected.” 

“Yeah? Weren’t you looking for Roxanne?”

Auston smiles, cocky. “Would you like it better if I was?”

“No,” Mitch scoffs, “of course not. I’m a better catch than her, you know. If only you weren’t straight.” 

“Who said I was straight?” 

“Oh shit,” Mitch says, mouth opening to a small ‘o’. “I did the thing that I hate when other people do it.” 

“You really did,” Auston laughs. “Check your biases.” 

“I will, Jesus. I just thought you were staring at Roxanne!” 

“I wasn’t,” Auston smirks, “I was staring at you.” 

Mitch flushes, his heart beating faster. He’s somehow flattered. “So you did look at my nipples.” 

Auston opens his mouth.

“Ah! Don’t deny it, I saw you.”

Auston shakes his head incredulously, his teeth on display as he smiles. “You got me, I looked at your nipples. You can’t blame me though; they’re on display.”

Mitch smirks. “All part of the plan, baby, all part of the plan.” 

“Oh yeah? Then was it part of the plan to stay at the bar all night? Or are you actually going to dance?” 

Mitch raises your eyebrows. “Oh, you want to dance? Let’s dance alright.” He gets ready to push off his stool before he hesitates. “Wait, are you sure you want to be, you know, seen in public with me? You’ll get recognized.” 

Auston hesitates. “But it’ll be fine, right?”

“I don’t know, I’m with Roxanne tonight. Roxanne’s a pretty big deal in the modelling world. And I’m out, I don’t want to… I don’t want to mess with your career or anything.”

“Wait, are you a big deal?”

Mitch huffs. “That’s rude. But, yeah, I guess? I mean, I’m not _ super _ big yet, but I do have a booking at Toronto Fashion Week. I’d like to think I’m sort of up there? I think my coming out made news, even if it was on, like, some small fashion news-outlet.”

“Hold up, you’re a model?”

“Yeah, I’m a model,” Mitch sighs. 

“Fuck.”

“Yeah, fuck,” Mitch echoes. 

They’re both quiet for a moment, the bass of the club filling in the silence. Mitch wilts. He thought there was a tight, electric sort of tension between them both, pulling them toward each other. It felt like there was something. It shouldn’t be over this quick. 

But then, Auston perks up. He smiles. “Come to my place.”

“What?” 

“Come to my place,” Auston repeats, smile turning lopsided. 

Mitch slowly perks up, a hidden buzz of energy running underneath his skin like a livewire. It feels like he can almost shoot out of his skin. “Are you sure? I’ll know where the Auston Matthews lives.”

“It’s fine, I trust you aren’t a serial killer.” Auston stares Mitch in the eyes. 

Mitch smiles, mischievous. “I can’t say I am.”

Auston steps off his own stool and offers a big hand toward Mitch. “Then, you ready to go?”

Mitch looks down at the offered hand, notes the long length of Auston’s fingers. He thinks about how it would look if he ditched Roxanne, about enduring Morgan’s bitching. But he looks up at Auston’s face and the warmth that it shows. It heats up Mitch’s insides. 

“Let’s go,” Mitch smiles, dazzling in the dark lighting of the club, and takes Auston’s hand.

*

The booking he has for Toronto Fashion Week comes in a week. It’s only been a few days since he’s met Auston Matthews and, by proxy, known him, but Mitch has invited him to the event. Mitch had wondered about the implications of sending such an invitation, if it seemed too forward or desperate, but he had shut those thoughts down. 

_ “Is it bad if I invite Auston to that booking I have with Wuxly?” Mitch’s eyes were wide with unease. _

_ Morgan rolled his eyes. “Just send him the message.” _

_ “Are you sure?” Mitch rolled his bottom lip between his teeth. _

_ “Oh my fucking god,” Morgan exhaled, taking Mitch’s phone out of his hands. He pressed the send button. _

_ Mitch stared in disbelief. “Fuck, Mo, I don’t know if I hate you or love you.” _

It turned out to be fine because Auston replied with a yes and a happy face. Clearly, Auston’s besotted with him too. 

Well. 

Clearly, Mitch can _ pretend _ that Auston is besotted with him too. 

The booking turns out to be one that he anticipates very much. It’s up there with the time he auditioned for some small, online clothing company that let him wear a bunch of crop tops and short shorts for their website photos. It’s great, really, since he also gets to play around with a tiny Yorkshire Terrier puppy named Bailey on the runway. It’s one of the reasons he auditioned for the job in the first place. 

When he arrives at the venue, an hour and a half before he has to sashay down the catwalk, he sends a quick Snap to Auston. He’s excited and full of energy. He gets some water backstage and lets the makeup artist do her magic on his skin. He gives her a quick, apologetic shrug when she points to his dark circles. 

“Good, you made it,” Morgan sighs as he walks up next to Mitch. 

Mitch gives him a smile. “Of course I did, I get to pet a dog after all!” 

“Yup,” Morgan nods, hiding behind a knowing smile, “that’s the main reason you were excited and didn’t sleep.” Morgan shares a criticizing look with the makeup artist.

“Oh, shut up, Morgan. I tried to sleep, alright,” Mitch huffs. He knows Morgan is making a joke. 

“Sure you did, bud.”

Mitch scowls more. He insists petulantly to himself, “I _ did _ try, I did.”

“You know, I bet they’re gonna let you see Bailey soon.”

Mitch gasps. The incentive of being able to walk down the runway with a dog fulfills him in wondrous ways that he’s never imagined. “Oh my god, when?”

“Soon,” Morgan smirks. 

“You’re the worst, Mo. Let me see Bailey! He deserves all the pets! He’s a good boy.”

Morgan laughs, a sound that borderlines a cackle. He nods at Mitch, agreeing with his statement, before leaving Mitch to vibrate in anger. Mitch still doesn’t know when he’ll get to see Bailey.

He pouts. 

By the time the show starts, Mitch has had plenty of time to reacquaint himself with the angelic Bailey. Bailey is a tiny, tiny puppy holding a lot of energy in his small body. It seems like he’s always smiling with the way his little tongue lolls out of his mouth as he pants softly. Mitch spends several minutes petting down Bailey’s unruly brown fur and laughing as Bailey licks him ferociously. 

He carries that joy with him down the catwalk, smile blinding as he leads Bailey along with a leash. There’s the persistent thought of Auston’s presence in his mind as the cameras flash bright white, taking a snapshot of Mitch’s long strides. He feels Bailey tug at his leash several times, probably interested in all the new scents and sights surrounding him. Mitch struggles to contain his laughter, somehow managing to hold it in and stay professional. He hopes the camera can capture how happy he is. 

At the end of the runway, Mitch squats down and ruffles Bailey’s fur for a pose. It’s bound to make a cute and cheerful photo, so Mitch puts on his biggest delighted smile. He ends up catching Auston’s gaze. He’s seated in the back of the room. His gaze lights Mitch up even more, the warm, soft expression on Auston’s face heating Mitch up from the inside. 

When the show ends and Mitch is booted from the runway, Auston catches up to him backstage. Mitch is somewhat surprised. 

“Mitch,” Auston greets him with a smile. 

“Auston! How’d you get backstage?” Mitch asks, pleasantly surprised. 

Auston nods in the general direction of the door. “Your manager helped.”

Mitch makes a face. “He’s finally good for something.”

The statement draws a laugh out of Auston, the deep, soothing sound settling comfortingly in Mitch’s chest. It’s a warm sound. “You chirping your manager?”

“Trust me,” Mitch scowls, “he needs it.” 

Auston shakes his head with a fond smile. It’s like they’ve known each other for years instead of a few measly days. Auston hesitates, body shifting towards Mitch awkwardly. “You looked great out there.”

“Yeah?” Mitch laughs. “I was wearing a winter jacket. I think I was sweating.”

“But you looked good in it,” Auston frowns, looking stubborn. He adds, “you look good in everything and nothing.” He smirks.

“Wow,” Mitch smiles, smacking Auston’s arm, “you better not be lying.”

“How could I lie to someone like you?”

Mitch raises an eyebrow. “I hope that was a compliment.”

Auston shrugs, teasingly. “I guess you’ll have to find out.”

There’s a quick silence between them, a charged silence, that becomes drowned out by background noise. Mitch stares into Auston’s eyes, sees the playfulness swirling in them, the happiness and want. He feels his own body heat up in return, straining to repress his own limbs from doing anything brash like pulling Auston in for a kiss with the all-seeing glares of photographers surrounding them. God, Mitch wants to. He wants to. But he can’t.

Instead, he gives Auston a brief, coy smile and brushes Auston’s hand with his own. Auston beams back in return and nudges Mitch’s feet with his own. 

The calm, intense moment is broken by a shrill voice. “Oh my god, Mitch! Is that you?”

Mitch turns around at the sound. He quickly masks his displeasure of the interrupted moment with a cheerful smile. “Roxanne! You’re early.” She is. She has a show at nine in the evening, but it’s only around seven. 

Roxanne giggles, heels clicking against the floor as she flips her long hair behind her. “I wanted to come early. You know Sarah, right? She wanted me to keep her company.”

Mitch does know Sarah. Sarah has a mansion in Bridle Path and travels to New York every other week. 

“Shit, that’s nice of you,” Mitch nods. 

“Of course,” Roxanne laughs as if she was looking for Mitch to compliment her. She slowly slinks next to Mitch and directs her gaze at Auston, looking him up and down with a small smirk. “Who’s this?” She gives Mitch a small, indulgent nudge. They both know she knows who Auston is.

Auston sneaks a small raise of his eyebrows at Mitch. Mitch shakes his head. 

“Auston Matthews, the star player for the Toronto Maple Leafs,” Mitch smiles. “He came up to me at Rebel last week after you left.”

Roxanne’s smirk grows wider, scheming. She shifts her body subtly, no doubt settling in a position that illustrates a more aesthetic view of the lines of her curves. Her fingers are dainty as her hand rises, smoothing down the nonexistent creases in Auston’s dark blazer. Mitch can see Auston’s chest tense. Mitch is unnerved by the action, angry and jealous. He curls his hands into fists and breathes out deeply, silently.

“Star player? Is that so?” Roxanne murmurs demurely, her voice rich and velvety. She directs her attention to Auston. “Why would someone as important as you take the time to wander around at some fashion show? Unless…”

Mitch hears the amusement in Roxanne’s tone, understands that Roxanne is baiting Auston, like a beast playing with its prey. 

Auston frowns. He hasn’t said a word yet. Mitch watches as Auston’s mouth opens, seemingly in slow motion, his heart pumping wildly at what words might come out of it. His mind spins at how slanderous they could be—how they could ruin Auston’s reputation. 

“He wanted to see you,” Mitch butts in, sending Auston a meaningful look as he stares at Mitch in confusion. “When he came up to me, he wanted to know who you were. He had to leave, so I told him to come to Fashion Week to find you. Right, Auston?”

Mitch sees Auston hesitates and hopes his eyes are enough to convince Auston to play along. 

“Uh, yeah,” Auston says and Mitch breathes a sigh of relief. Auston clears his throat once and then, more convincingly, “yeah. I didn’t want to seem like a creep or anything, so I just thought it’d be better if Mitch introduced us.”

Roxanne’s eyes light up at the prospect of having baited a good-looking man with her status alone. “Yeah? Well, then, I’m pleased to meet you.” Her eyes flit to the side, where another girl is waving at her vigorously. 

Auston lowers his head once in agreement, a charming smile on his lips. “Me too.”

Roxanne sighs, a wispy sound. “I wish I could stay, but Sarah calls. Mitch can give you my number. I’ll be expecting your text.” Roxanne winks, leaving them behind with sharp clicks of her heels. 

Mitch scoffs, “I bet I could wear heels higher than hers.”

Auston raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” Mitch rolls his eyes. “Who do you think I am? Mo made sure I was well-acquainted with death-contraptions disguised as ‘high heels’.” He shudders at the memory of falling on his face five times in a row. 

“Okay, that’s hot and you _ have _ to show me later, but…” Auston trails off. He looks around, making sure of something. “Why do I want to see Roxanne?” 

Mitch sighs and steals a look in Roxanne’s general direction. It’s good that she’s preoccupied with Sarah, in the middle of taking a bunch of selfies to, no doubt, post on Instagram. 

“Let’s go outside first,” Mitch says. He’s changed and rid of all the makeup that was slathered on his face. He wants to lead Auston out of the room, hand in hand, but he knows it’ll only draw unwanted attention and speculation.

They make it to Auston’s car without much delay, Mitch only stopping to say goodbye to Morgan and the fashion designer. 

The door closes behind Auston with a soft bang, sending one final gust of wind into the car. Auston stares at him expectantly. It isn’t a harsh gaze by any chance, just curious and slightly confused. 

“Okay, look,” Mitch starts, “just pretend you’re trying to wheel her, okay? It’s better having rumours being spread about you and her than you and me.”

Auston’s brows furrow. “Do you really want me to do that? Did I read this wrong? Did you… did you not want to date me? If you don’t, you can just tell me, Mitch.”

Mitch’s widen and he tenses up, back straight. He can’t be quick enough to dissipate that misunderstanding. “No, no, I definitely do! You’re a big fucking catch, man, but I just don’t want your reputation to go to shit, you know? Like, that’s definitely going to happen if you’re seen with _ me _ all the time.”

Auston’s face relaxes, a look of relief present. “Okay, good, good. But are you sure you want me to pretend that I’m trying to wheel her?”

“Yeah,” Mitch sighs. “We would be found out otherwise and you have no idea how much power she holds. All your private information—leaked just like that.” Mitch snaps. “Plus, you don’t really even have to text her.”

“No?” Auston raises his eyebrows.

“Just pretend you copied down the wrong number or something. Or say that you lost it. It’s not like she’ll ever see you again, right?”

*

Mitch is surprised that Roxanne invites him to brunch—not breakfast, not lunch, but brunch. He can’t afford to snub her, definitely not, so he agrees with a cheerful gif of a dog rolling around and a sticker saying “yes”. He’s sure that those messages make him look a bit more eccentric than desired, but he doesn’t care that much anymore. Reputation is everything in the modelling industry, but Mitch isn’t that involved in trying to mould a good one for himself. That’s why he pays Morgan.

He meets Roxanne at door, going through the customary pleasantries of a brief hug and insincere platitudes. He thinks he sees a glimmer of surprise in Roxanne’s eye, probably directed at Mitch’s outfit. _ That’s right, _ Mitch thinks, _ I can look up restaurants and gauge dress codes so I don’t look like a fucking idiot when I show up. _ He feels, briefly, like he’s won something before his heart drops when he enters. 

Now, Mitch knows that Roxanne brought him to a fancy, world-class restaurant located in a _ five-star hotel, _ but nothing could’ve truly prepared him for the austerity of the atmosphere. It feels like there’s a cool stupor seeping through the air displaying a suffocating scene of prim and proper affluence abundantly filled with masks of unnatural happiness. 

Mitch is out of place. It is a fact. He’s known that since he looked at the menu, the meal costing ninety-nine dollars per person. 

Yet Roxanne lives this life every day. Mitch wouldn’t ever willingly step a foot in a place like this. 

The maître d'hôtel leads them to a table on the second floor, making sure to give Roxanne the brightest smile she can while maintaining a calm visage. Their table sits adjacent to a window spanning the entirety of the wall, boasting a clear view of Roy Thomson Hall. Mitch swallows and hesitantly orders a bellini after Roxanne’s own demand of a mimosa. 

“Isn’t this place great?” Roxanne beams, all white teeth and predatory fangs. 

“Yeah,” Mitch nods, smiling in response. “Looking forward to trying all the pastries and whatever. I have a sweet tooth.”

“Oh,” Roxanne frowns. “I’m not eating any carbs, a detox of sorts. I wish I could be as careless with my diet as you are.”

Mitch’s eyebrow twitches. He chuckles as if Roxanne’s words were terrifically amusing. “You know what they say; we’re here for a fun time not a long time.”

Roxanne smiles, indulging him. “Anyways, who cares about diet? I invited you to brunch for a reason, you know.” She switches the topic, without abandon, as soon as she’s bored. 

Mitch tilts his head, gesturing for her to continue. 

“I wanted to ask for you to come to a party next week,” she says, proudly, “that I’m hosting, of course. It’ll be great—influencers, designers, some of my friends from New York, everyone’s coming!”

“Wow,” Mitch smiles, painfully, “that’s lit. Yeah, of course, I’ll be there. Thanks for inviting me.” 

As much as he doesn’t want to rub any more elbows with anyone out of his league, the thought of the presence of so many different types of people makes Mitch’s head spin—in a good way.

“That’s what I like to hear! It’ll be themed, roaring twenties and everything.”

“Okay, sounds good. What’re we celebrating?”

Roxanne blinks her eyes closed, opening them with a little smirk on her face. “Me, of course. I got a gig in Milan.”

Mitch almost chokes on his bellini. “Milan, as in Milan fashion week?”

“What else could it be, sis?” Roxanne laughs. 

“That’s amazing, Roxanne, I’m happy for you.” There’s no lie in Mitch’s words. “Who booked you?”

“Versace” is her reply. The word stuns Mitch a little, but he shouldn’t be. He shouldn’t be. 

“Wow,” he says again. He can’t find any other vocabulary to supplement his sentences. “That’s really great. You’ll be ripping it up on the runway.”

Roxanne only smiles, happy to be praised. “Oh! Before I forget, tell Auston to come, alright?” She pouts. “He never messaged me after the last time we saw each other.”

Mitch furrows his brow like her statement is crazy. “That’s weird, I gave him your number right after you left.” He swallows again. His mouth is dry. “I’ll tell him to come, for sure.”

“Good,” Roxanne says airily. 

There’s a sinking feeling in Mitch’s chest. He recognizes it as dread. 

*

Mitch arrives at Roxanne’s house, mansion, whatever, after a ride from Auston, at Auston’s insistence. 

“At least let me drive you there,” Auston had said, a no-nonsense look on his face. “If I have to go to this stupid party, then at least let me have you to keep me company.”

And Mitch had blushed at the somewhat straightforward statement and hid his face behind his hands. “I think it’d be the other way around. I need you to keep me company.”

Mitch had left it at that, not that he minded sitting in Auston’s Porsche and looking all pretty while Auston was the one who had to do all the hard work of driving. 

And now, Mitch feels cozy in the shotgun seat, decked out in a flowy navy blue blazer and matching dress pants, foregoing a shirt. He doesn’t want to get out of Auston’s Porsche, doesn’t want to step out of their comfortable bubble into the suffocating atmosphere of extravagance. Already, he sees men dressed in a formal tux at the mouth of the driveway loop running through the portico. They’re the valet. It’s cold outside; Mitch wouldn’t want to be in their positions. 

“This is too much,” Mitch bites his lip. 

“You’re telling me,” Auston sighs. Auston peeks over at Mitch, stunning in a three-piece navy suit. They’re matching, but it could be chalked up to a coincidence; navy is a popular colour. None of them are following the party theme of “the roaring twenties”, but it’s not like Mitch particularly cares. 

Auston takes in Mitch’s white knuckles and ravaged lip and sighs, smiling exasperatedly. “Mitchy, it’ll be fine. What’re you even worried about?”

“I don’t know,” he sighs. “I really don’t.” Mitch lets out a few deep breaths, psyching himself up. “Okay. We got this. In and out in three hours or so. And then we’re done.”

Auston snorts and reaches a hand over, settling it over Mitch’s thigh and giving it a quick squeeze. “Don’t worry Mitchy, I’ll be right beside you.” 

Mitch gives Auston a bright and appreciative smile, letting his own hand rest over Auston’s before pulling it back. He would press a firm kiss onto Auston’s cheek, but they’re too close to the mansion’s entrance, and the rest of the public, for Mitch to do so. 

It isn’t long before Mitch is stepping out of Auston’s car, mindful of the snow so it won’t leave stains on his suede shoes. He waits until Auston hands off the keys of the Porsche to the valet, giving him a small smile and tilt of his head to ask if he’s ready to go. They walk side-by-side, an urge to grab hold of Auston’s swinging hand bubbling up within Mitch. He doesn’t let the urge possess him. 

Instead, he lets the overwhelming nature of the architecture of the building wash over him. There is money written all over this mansion. It’s prominent from the heavy oaken doors guarding the entrance to the residence, commanding in a sense that Mitch never thought a door could be. The fountain just behind the portico is frozen solid, the water appearing as clear shards of ice instead of bubbling, flowing liquid. Nonetheless, the solid marble is memorable, a stunning visual of the luxury and fortune Roxanne’s family holds. 

The interior of the house isn’t anything to laugh at either, with rich-coloured marble floors and enchanting stone pillars that are more for decoration’s sake than support. There are recessed lights embedded in the ceiling, the soft, warm light glittering off of the intricate golden frames of the thousand-dollar Group of Seven paintings hung up on the walls like little beacons of Canadian history. Mitch cranes his head to the ceiling, neck straining as he eyes the massive chandelier dangling in the centre of the oval grand foyer. It sparkles, the spinning crystals much too bright. 

There are too many things for Mitch’s eyes to focus on, from the decor of the mansion to the multitude of people flowing through the rooms. Mitch recognizes a few fellow fashion models, some that he likes and some that he’s… not so fond of. Some of his past employers are present, passing by with a polite smile directed at Mitch. And, of course, journalists are milling about, carrying their cameras like weapons specifically made to bring about the downfall of one’s esteem. They make Mitch uneasy. 

“This is some fucking house, yeah?” Auston says, disbelief in his tone.

“You know it. Roxanne’s loaded. Or, really, her family’s loaded. Guess how expensive this house is.”

Auston shoots him a look. “I don’t know. How much?”

Mitch huffs out a breath and glares at Auston from under his eyelashes. “You were supposed to guess. How much do you think it is?”

Auston laughs, bumping Mitch’s shoulder. “Like, twenty million, I guess.”

Mitch smiles slyly, remaining quiet.

“Wait, it’s not twenty million?”

Mitch shakes his head silently, smirking.

“How much, then?! Twenty-five? Thirty?” 

“Nope,” Mitch says. “Just about, I’unno, around fifty-nine million.”

He watches as Auston’s mouth drop. Auston leans down so he’s right next to Mitch’s ears and whispers harshly, “Sixty million dollars for this fucking mansion? Jesus Christ, she really is loaded.”

“Ah, no, her _ family _ is loaded,” Mitch tsks, “there’s a distinction.”

“There is,” Auston repeats, smiling now, “there is.”

Speak of the Devil and he shall appear. 

Roxanne suddenly emerges, appearing tall and elegant in a shimmering, sequined, gold dress. It moulds to her body, a slit running up the length of its fabric from floor to hip that exposes a lot of skin. Her eyes are smokey, the cut crease clearly defining her grey eyes. She looks stunning, fitting well into her theme of the roaring twenties. 

“Here she comes,” Mitch sighs to Auston and smiles. There is some displeasure on Auston’s face before it smoothes out into neutral contentment. 

“Mitch!” Roxanne exclaims, opening her arms. Mitch laughs and hugs her, a gentle, half-gesture that is meant more for appearances than actual affection. 

“Roxanne, you look amazing, as always,” Mitch smiles. Mitch can never lie about that; she is beautiful. “This place is amazing too.”

Roxanne laughs, haughty, “thank you. I have to thank my makeup artist for that.” Then, she directs her attention to Auston. “So, you showed up this time. I was expecting a text from you.” She cocks one hip, the flowy fabric exposing her upper thigh. Mitch wonders if she’s wearing any underwear.

“I sent you a few, but you never responded,” Auston replies, his forehead wrinkling delicately. 

Roxanne raises her eyebrows in surprise. “Huh, that’s weird. This is why Insta’s so much easier than texting.”

Mitch nods, feeling a bit out of place and removed from the conversation. 

“For sure,” Auston smiles. It’s polite, but still charming as fuck. Mitch can’t help but sigh in desire in the back of his mind.

“Well, I’ll catch you guys in a bit,” Roxanne exhales, flipping her blonde curls behind her back. “Gonna greet some of the designers, you know?”

Mitch laughs, “yeah, don’t let us stop you.”

Roxanne walks away. She sends a wink in Auston’s direction, her hips swaying, “feel free to grab some champagne.”

And then she’s gone, her gold figure disappearing in the crowds of people attending her party. 

Auston shares a look with him, and Mitch knows that he’s going to be the one driving them back tonight.

In the later stages of this celebratory gathering, after a ridiculous champagne toast that Roxanne had conducted with hundreds of people, Mitch is pretty tired out. They’re getting close to that three-hour mark that Mitch had planned for their exit, so they’re both almost free. Mitch can taste the feeling of a good night’s rest coming up—spent in Auston’s bed, of course. 

His bladder starts acting up, from the countless glasses of some sort of bougie flavoured water that he had, so he tells Auston to ditch him while he uses the washroom. There’s some protest from Auston, who offers to wait for Mitch outside the bathroom, but Mitch waves him off with a discrete squeeze to the bicep. It’s not like Mitch should be holding back on Auston’s experience of old-money luxury. 

The bathroom isn’t as amazing as Mitch would expect, but then again, how fancy could a two-piece bathroom even get? There’s a cool-looking faucet, and some nice scented candles, but that was basically it. The gold plated toilet handle is an interesting touch, though. 

After washing his hands, Mitch walks out to the same muted loudness of dozens of conversations going on between dozens of groups of people at the same time. It’s time for him to find Auston. He takes a peek at his phone. It’s been three hours; they can leave now. 

Mitch wanders off to the dining area, where a spread of little hors d’oeuvres and desserts lie on a mahogany table next to a slew of alcoholic drinks. Some waiters replace the near-empty trays with ones filled to the brim with food. Auston isn’t there. There’s a dance floor in the basement of the mansion, but Mitch knows that Auston wouldn’t go there without Mitch in tow. 

Mitch sucks in his lips, feeling even more out of place without his partner next to him. He traipses to the refreshments table, trailing his fingers along the wood, feeling the uneven texture of the grain against his skin. He plucks a champagne glass of the flavoured water again, but this time there are bubbles in it. The stem of the glass is delicate in his hands, easy to break. He brings the glass to his lips, sipping the water slowly. He looks down and brings his other hand inside his pants pocket. He looks around, gauging where Auston is, before seeing him in the background. He’s talking to Roxanne by the grand staircase, Roxanne’s hand lying flat on his chest. Mitch feels a fire burn in his own chest, less pleasurable than the fire he feels from desire and closer to the destructing flames of jealousy. 

“Excuse me,” an accented voice shocks Mitch out of his reverie. Mitch turns around, coming face to face to Kozaburo Akasaka, a Japanese fashion designer creating garments that intermixed street style and high fashion. A designer that Mitch had a lot of respect for. He looks imposing even in a simple all-black outfit of a dress shirt and slacks, the only gleam of ‘colour’ stemming from the metal buckle of his belt.

Mitch quickly sets down his barely empty glass of water and moves out of the way. Mitch apologizes shakily, “I’m so sorry.”

Kozaburo tilts his head, smiling in amused confusion, “what are you apologizing for? I merely wanted your attention.”

“Oh,” Mitch laughs nervously. “I thought I was blocking your way. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Akasaka, really.”

Kozaburo eyes him with a pleased look. “Ah, so you do know of me.”

“How could I not?” Mitch asks, just a touch of manic in his voice. “Your style is so… incredible.” There are stars in Mitch’s eyes.

Kozaburo laughs. “Thank you—” he pauses, silently prompting Mitch to tell him his name.

“Mitch, Mitch Marner.”

“Thank you, Mitch. Call me Kozaburo, then.”

Mitch blinks in stunned surprise. “Of course.”

“Let me ask you a question, Mitch, are you a model?” 

“Yes, I am,” Mitch says. His head spins from whiplash, from the quick transition of the burn of jealousy to the star-struck admiration he feels for Kozaburo.

“Then, how would you feel about modelling my fall and winter collection at NY Fashion Week?” A gentle smile plays on Kozaburo’s lips. 

There’s a moment of silence where Mitch is unable to do anything except frantically process those words inside his mind. Kozaburo Akasaka wants Mitch to model for him at _ New York Fashion Week. _ He wants _ Mitch. _

“That would be an amazing opportunity! But, I—I’m still lost, why me?” Mitch cringes internally at his last sentence. He hopes Kozaburo doesn’t second guess his decision to ask Mitch to model for him; he should’ve just kept his big mouth closed and taken the job.

“Why not you?” 

Mitch has no response to that. 

“I saw you picking up a drink, and the elegance that you exude is something that cannot be learned. It is natural, a part of you. And that is why I want you to model my clothes,” Kozaburo says, he swirls his own glass of champagne. 

There isn’t anything Mitch can do except thank him. “Thank you, then, Mr. Akasaka! I look forward to working with you.” Mitch holds out a hand for a handshake, his hand shaking slightly. 

Kozaburo’s lips quirk up, and he shakes Mitch’s hand once with a firm grip, lowering his head slightly. “So do I, Mitch. Here’s my business card, have your manager send me an Email. And remember to call me Kozaburo.”

Mitch takes the thin, matte card with trembling fingers and nods once. He watches as Kozaburo walks away, getting stopped by several other famous designers in his path. 

Mitch’s body vibrates with energy, a happy feeling permeating through all his cells. He wants to tell someone about his achievement, however lucky it was, and maybe have celebratory sex. He wants to run, shout, expend his energy somehow. He wants to tell Auston.

But then he remembers that Auston is with Roxanne, and his heart clenches a little. 

He looks back to the grand staircase, searching for Roxanne’s voluptuous figure and Auston’s hulking silhouette. A frown appears on his face when he finds no one. Where did Auston go? 

Shit, did Roxanne and Auston… 

Fuck, no, that wouldn’t happen. Auston wouldn’t do that to him. Mitch hates himself for even thinking that scenario was a possibility. 

He shakes his head as if the physical action can clear his mind mentally. He’s about to turn and wander the mansion alone in search of Auston before an arm grips his waist. He squeaks, almost yelling in surprised fear.

“Oh my god, Auston! You fucking scared me!” Mitch sighs, closing his eyes and pressing a hand to Auston’s arm. His heart jumps erratically from the adrenaline rush.

Auston laughs, “that was kinda the point, Mitchy.”

“You asshole,” Mitch rolls his eyes. “Because of that, now I’m not gonna tell you the good news.”

“The good news, eh?” Auston eyes him with a look half-filled with intrigue and desire. “Tell me.”

“Well,” Mitch starts. He smiles elusively. 

Auston groans. “Come on, Mitch, just tell me.”

“Guess who landed a gig at New York Fashion Week?”

Auston’s eyebrows rise to his hairline. “No fucking way. Holy shit, that’s amazing. I’m so happy for you. You deserve it.”

The last sentence is said with so much force and reverence that Mitch blushes. He looks into Auston’s eyes and smiles. 

He says, sincerely, “thank you.” 

He means every word. 

It’s at that moment that Mitch wishes that Auston wasn’t a professional athlete who was stuck in the conservative restraints of the conventions that are associated with playing sports for a living. He wishes that he could kiss him, right in front of the cameras, and hug him tight. But that’s not the case, so he settles for a quick lean of his head toward Auston. 

Mitch isn’t expecting Auston to do anything, which is why his eyes are so wide when Auston takes a hold of his jaw, securing it in place, and presses a firm kiss to Mitch’s lips. Mitch makes a surprised noise but closes his eyes anyway, and responds with just as much feeling, his hands travelling to their wonted spots on Auston’s shoulders. He hears a few clicks of camera shutters going off, the bright light of flash-photography just as blinding behind his eyelids. 

It’s Auston who pulls away first, a calm, gentle smile on his face. Mitch blinks once, twice.

“What was that for?”

“Nothing,” Auston smiles, “I’m just really proud.”

“We’re in public,” Mitch says, dumbly.

“I know. That’s the whole point.”

“Dude. _ Dude.” _

“I know, Mitch. I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> oh man i forgot to do my little outro thing.
> 
> thank you to everyone for reading! if you liked this fic, please leave a kudos. and if you really liked it, leave a comment down below! tell all your friends and come yell with me on tumblr @mitcheemarns!
> 
> isnt model mitch a blessing? like just the thought of it makes my head implode


End file.
